The van was new. The United pennant hanging from the mirror had gold lettering on it. He still couldn’t make out the conversation from the doorway.
“ Jack Duggan was his name…”
The antenna on the roof was nothing special. Any delivery van would have one. A drainpipe gurgled somewhere ahead. One of the two men in the doorway turned.
“ He was born and raised in I-er-land…”
He leaned against the gatepost and coughed.
“Hi lads, am I right for Bolands, am I?”
The driver he recognized from Murtagh’s description. The other one had white hair and a Fu Manchu mustache. The denim waistcoat with the silvery bits put Minogue in mind of some country-and-western type.
“Am I right…?” he called out again.
“What?” from Fu Manchu.
“Am I right for Bolands, lads?”
“Bolands?”
“Bolands Pub. The taxi man said go down here.”
One of the men chortled.
“Ah, you’re on the wrong planet there, man,” said Fu Manchu. “There’s no Bolands here ”
Minogue allowed himself a gentle sway.
“But didn’t I get a taxi here?”
“You were codded then, weren’t you. No Bolands, pal. No pub.”
“But your man in the taxi…”
“Where did you come from?” Fu Manchu asked.
“I’m up from Lisdoon, so I am. I came up tonight on the Limerick train.”
“Lisdoonvarna? And where are you headed?”
“A nephew of mine says to come out to Fairview to meet a fella about a job. A watchman. ”
“Fairview?”
“That’s it. Bolands Pub in Fairview.”
The driver cleared his throat and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
“There’s a Fairview and there’s a Bolands there too, pal,” said Fu Manchu. “But you’re going at it arseways, in a big way. Where did you get your taxi from?”
“Down the quays. I stopped off for a pint and… ”
“Well I hope you like walking. Fairview’s that way. Where’s your bag?”
“What bag?”
Minogue took a step back and looked around the footpath. He backed into the gatepost again.
“Me bag,” he shouted. ”Where’s me bag? I had it in the seat beside me there, I put it… ah, for the love of God… ”
Fu Manchu blew out a volley of smoke.
“Jases,” he said. “You weren’t just codded there, pal, you were robbed. You’d be better off going home to Lisdoon.”
“But what am I…” Minogue went on. “Where’s me fags? I’ve no fags either.”
The driver stepped out to the gate. He held out three cigarettes. Minogue let his eyes out of focus and grabbed at them. He looked down to where they fell and smiled.
“Holy Jases,” said the driver. “I’m fuckin’ throwing money away on a culchie.”
“Ah, you’re the decent man — ”
“Look it,” he said. “Go up that way there and go left. Find a bus stop this side of the road and go back and get your shagging train home to wherever. ”
The hand on Minogue’s shoulder let go.
“Where…”
“Go on with you,” the driver called out. “Before somebody catches you here and throws you into a fuckin’ saucepan and eats you.”
There were bars across the back of the bench seat of the van but the streetlamp showed the bottoms of the boxes. Two for sure.
He paused by the van and turned.
“Have you got a light, lads?”
“Get out to hell with you,” the driver called out. “You’d oney set fire to yourself. Go on with you!”
“What do you mean you’ve no comb?”
Malone yawned. “I-have-no-comb,” he said. He eyed his colleague. “No fucking comb. Are you with me now?”
Minogue shifted in the seat. He tugged at his collar again. The rain had gone all the way down his back. Malone had inched the Opel to the head of the street. Lights glistened on the wet hedge, the puddles, the dips in the cement roadway.
“What the hell are they doing?”
Minogue wondered if he’d overdone it. He looked down at Malone’s notebook again. Fu Manchu was Kevin Halloran, an uncle of one of the band members. He’d been in the music scene himself thirty years ago. Listed as musician. A drunk and disorderly assault within the past five years. Receiving stolen goods seven years ago.
“Have you heard of this Tony Hackett?” Minogue asked. “The driver?”
“No. Has he any form? Wait, here they come.”
The handcart came out the gate, hopping once as Hackett pushed it onto the footpath. Halloran entered the van by the sliding door. Hackett flicked his cigarette into the street and stepped into the van after him.
“Say when,” Malone murmured. Minogue held up his hands.
The van shook and wavered as they moved about inside. Halloran stepped down on the path. Hackett joined him and began lifting down a box.
“That’s it,” said Malone. “So how do you want it?”
Minogue ran his fingers along the buttons on the walkie-talkie.
“Leave it,” he said. “Wait. I want to see what happens with the van.”
He could admire the dexterity with which Tony Hackett nudged the box onto the handcart, levered it up, and smartly turned back up in the driveway. He called Murtagh.
“Mazurka to Polka One.”
“Go ahead. Over.”
“Stand by,” said Minogue “We’re waiting to see if our fella leaves.”
Malone gave him a nudge. The driver, collar up now, strode out the gateway and stepped around to the driver’s side.
“You think he’s going to phone Halloran in a few minutes,” said Malone. “To check?”
Minogue watched the vapor from the exhaust.
“Polka One,” Minogue said. “He’s off. We’re going after him. Over.”
It was Farrell answering.
“What about the house?” he asked.
“Stay put here. You might be going in. If there are any comings and goings, ye’ll go in for sure, no questions asked. Over.”
“Fair enough,” said Farrell in a voice Minogue knew only too well. “Out.”
Malone started the Opel. He waited until the van had turned the corner before he let out the clutch.
“Oi, boss.”
Minogue didn’t look over.
“I’d feel a lot smarter if we had company, boss, I have to tell you. If this Hackett’s up to what you think he is, he might be ready to really lose us.”
Minogue pulled his seat belt tighter. He checked his flashlight on the map again. Malone slowed and let the Opel freewheel.
“What’s he doing?” Malone asked.
